


War Torn

by Alterius



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Double The Promptis, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Time Travel, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 20:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17967224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alterius/pseuds/Alterius
Summary: Common sense says don't mess with the Astrals' plans, but Prompto's never claimed to have much of that, especially when his best friend's life is at stake. Unfortunately, the result isn't exactly what Prompto was expecting.





	War Torn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I just wanted a Promptis time travel fanfiction and the many out there didn't quite scratch the itch, so I started writing one. This is literally just self-indulgence at work here. Posted for WIP Week and beta'd by my lovely [fiance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lascivus/pseuds/Lascivus/works).

Prompto begs. In soundless words and with shaking hands that itch to hold Noct’s own, he begs.  
  
_Don’t go,_ he wants to say. **_Please_ ** _don’t go._

The words on the tip of his tongue almost tumble out when he catches sight of Noct’s brilliant blue eyes, but he holds back what he wants to say. He bites back the plea and holds off the tears lingering at the edges of his eyes.

It’s not fucking _fair_ and Noct _knows it_. They all know it, even as Prompto reaches out to wrap his hand tight around his king’s, to stop him with a single word that he’d pray to the gods he wouldn’t be able to ignore, if only he trusted the gods anymore.

“Wait,” Prompto says, the single word rushed, spoken too quickly in the silence that’s fallen over the two of them—four, he reminds himself, because Ignis and Gladio are still there. He speaks it like he wants to turn around, to leave this city and give them the opportunity to lie back and look up at the starlit sky just one more time. To give himself the chance to let his eyes drift to the man beside him more than the lights above, to admire the brilliant sheen of bright blue eyes that glimmer with a strength that even the full moon lacks, because he wouldn’t have any other chances.

Not after today.  
  
"Prom," Noct whispers and Prompto chokes back a sob as his chest aches at the way Noct’s voice quivers with the same grief that Prompto’s at war with. But Prompto has no intention of making this worse than it already is. He can’t plead with him to stay, no matter how much his heart cries out for exactly that.  
  
"I'm going with you," he says and takes the first step to ascend the stairs leading up to the citadel, knowing that when the sun rose, Prompto wouldn’t be able to look at the throne and see anything but a _grave_.

When Noctis steps to the side, blocking his path, it’s not the movement that tips Prompto off to what he really wants—it’s the way their hands stay joined, the way his grip tightens so subtly that Noct probably doesn’t even _notice_.

But Prompto notices. _Gods_ , of course he notices every minor detail of Noct showing him how much he wanted him to _stay by him_ when his royal upbringing kept him from finding the words simple enough to convey the meaning.

“Prompto, you _can’t_.”

 _Can’t_ ? Prompto would laugh if he found even a hint of humor in the word and he desperately wishes he could. He _wishes_ that _pride_ was the main contender, that Noctis didn’t want to drag him along for the sake of being the _strong, stoic_ guy he tried so hard to pretend he was.

Fuck the gods for damning him to a fate where the closest thing he could get to saving his friends was dying. _Fuck_ the Astrals and the crystal and everything in between that decided the only _mercy_ that Noct was afforded was not making his _friends_ watch him die.

But it doesn’t matter what Noct is going to cook up as an excuse. Nothing could keep him from being by his side—not even death.  
  
"You're not doing this alone, Noct," he says, moving around him, leading him by their still-joined hands for a brief moment before his grip slackens and falls away, leaving Noctis to lead them.

Ignis makes no move to stop them nor does Gladio.

Noct’s steps were slow, even with Prompto at his side and he’d never be able to blame him for that and he notices when they came to a brief halt, Noct’s gaze turning to their rear to where their two companions had pulled their weaponry from the armiger.

Prompto leans forward, presses a hand to the small of his back like he used to do Ignis, when his sight was first lost.

“They’ll be okay,” Prompto whispers, knowing their strength—combined and separated—better than anyone else after this past decade. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a hefty weight in his chest called guilt, demanding he turn right around and help them. It was the part that wanted him to take the _easy_ way out, the part that wanted to say goodbye and wait for Noctis to draw back the veil that hid the sun from Eos for these long ten years because how the hell is he supposed to stand there and _watch_ his best friend of fifteen years _die_?

But Prompto doesn’t run. A childhood marred by constantly running from what he was most afraid of was too long ago for him to be influenced by anymore—he didn’t _do_ that anymore. He knew how to stand his ground through the worst of it, to channel _fear_ into a drive to protect his friends as much as possible.

When Noctis finally nods and continues the climb with Prompto, he’s found his will to see this through to the end again, to be with Noctis in his last moments because like _hell_ is he about to send his king off to die alone.  
  
Arriving at the throne room proves harder than approaching the Citadel. It’s difficult to stare up at the place he once imagined Noctis sitting, knowing it will be the first and last time he occupies that space. It’s _difficult_ , knowing that Ardyn had been there just a short while ago, that the illusions of King Regis, Lady Lunafreya and several others had hung over it as a disgusting reminder of what they’d lost on their way here.

No matter how much it made his stomach churn, made his blood boil with renewed hatred for Ardyn Izunia, Prompto stayed at Noct’s side. He would stay there, right beside him through the worst of it, no matter how _bad_ it got.

Noctis, after all, would do the same for him.

When they reach the throne, Prompto doesn’t speak. He has no place to, amidst the words that Noct leaves for an absent father that _must_ be watching over him, that _must_ be proud of how far he’s come, how far he’s still willing to _go_ for a world that’s not always been so kind to him.

It’s not until Noctis is seated, head leaned back, looking far too old for a man barely into his thirtieth year, that Prompto reaches out. Brilliant blue eyes that glimmer with a life that the Astrals have never quite known snap up to his when Prompto’s hand lays over his wrist.

It’s the eye contact that gets him.

“Noct,” Prompto starts, though his voice shakes like he never wanted it to and he regrets how much _harder_ he’s making this for Noct now. He wants to plead with him to step away, to fashion a life together with the three of them in the world of darkness that they’d all adapted to.

That wasn’t something he ought to do, though. Noctis was a grown man and he could choose, right? _Right_?

The Astrals had forced his hand, but he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be, right? This was something he was doing of his own volition. … _Right_?

A sob lingers at the back of his throat, held back as his grip slackens. Could he _really_ do that to Noct? Could he let him leave his last moments to “live” through an eternity of guilt?  
  
“Save, uh,” he starts again, choking back the tears that collect in his eyes as his hand falls back to his side. "Save me a seat in the afterlife, yeah?"

“Yeah,” Noctis says, but it sounds weak and _tired_ and Prompto’s heart aches the longer he speaks. Why do the gods have to be so cruel to someone like _Noctis_ , of all people? “I’ll keep one warm for you.”

The silence that stretches between them doesn’t make this any easier, nor does it stop a tear from crawling down his cheek when Noct flashes a smile at him. It doesn’t look anything like it used to. It’s devoid of life, like he’s been dead for the past decade and they just didn’t have a body to mourn over.  
  
And when Noctis finally speaks, it’s _commanding_ and _kingly_ and all the things that Prompto’s never heard come out of Noctis’s mouth in his life. It’s all the things that Prompto had _dreamed_ of hearing these past ten years, fantasizing about a happy future where he was kneeled before his king, at his beck and call like the other members of the Crownsguard—like a _Glaive_ .  
  
"Kings of Lucis, come to me!"

The words reverberate off the walls and he watches as familiar apparitions rise from the earth. Taking a step forward is instinct and his fingers tremble when it hits him these aren’t enemies. They aren’t recreations that Ardyn has manipulated nor are they here to _test_ them.

This is the part that Prompto is clueless about. How the hell are they supposed to instill him with the power to strike down the scourge? Are they going to lock their swords together like something out of an old video game?

No, he finds out a moment later, when he takes a step back and jumps out of skin when the first king flies forward, _impaling_ Noctis before disappearing in a flash, absorbed into the ring.

“What the _hell_ is this?!”

There’s horror in his shaking voice because for fuck’s _sake_ , the Astrals have demanded he die and this is their idea of a fitting end? There’s a second flash of blue and then a third and he feels his chest tighten as he watches Noct writhe against the pain, holding tight to his father’s blade.

“This is a fucking _joke_ , right?!”

A fourth flash, then a fifth and a sixth. Prompto’s gritting his teeth now. This has to be some kind of sick _joke_ , right? How the hell could the Astrals put together a plan like this? How could they let it get so far that they gave Noctis the duty of suffering for what they’d let happen?  
  
"Everything you've done for them..." he whispers, struggling not to stop this. His hands are balled into fists so tight that his knuckles have gone sheet white. The seventh, eighth, _ninth_ flash of blue passing him by do nothing to ease the sharp twist of anger in his gut.    
  
"This is how they repay you?"

The tenth one flies by and Prompto’s head raises to meet blue eyes for a brief moment.

“Prom—” But his words are cut off as the eleventh king hits him and Prompto is beginning to wonder if he can make it through the thirteenth—he’s beginning to wonder if he can _allow_ him to make it through to the thirteenth.

When the twelfth runs Noctis through and disappears and he watches Noct’s hand slides partway down the sword, already living in his last moments, Prompto knows he can’t watch anymore.

“Prompto,” he croaks out, voice hoarse from the pain of his ancestors piercing him with their numerous weapons and he knows by the way he glances up at him that he’s not seeing anything straight, much less the ghostly form of King Regis. “Just… trust in me.”

Silence falls over them—Prompto and Noctis and the king he never properly met—and dead as he might be, Regis seems to wait for an answer that will never be what either one of them want to hear.

“I do,” he says at last and he hears Noct breathe out his relief too early, much like how quickly Regis casts his judgement. Wasn’t he supposed to be the stupid one? Well, he still had time to make that true.

Because when Regis raises his hand, pulls back his sword and charges, Prompto does what is probably the stupidest thing he can think of.

“It’s them I don’t,” he says before he throws himself between the thirteenth king and _his_ king and his mouth falls open, dripping blood and forcing out a sharp gasp of pain as the blade pierces flesh, tearing through his back—and into Noct’s chest.

His vision blurs as he looks up, seeing a trace of awe in King Regis’s posture as he slowly draws his hands away and disappears in a blink of light. A laugh spills from his lips, wet with blood and broken like his heart.

“I... dunno what I was expecting…”  



End file.
